I walked the main path behind the pack house, hands in my pockets, when the first one stopped me.
Old Marcus, one of the senior scouts, paused mid-stride with a wheelbarrow full of tools. He'd been almost thirty when I went into the seal. Now his beard was streaked with gray.
"Reid," he said, nodding once. "Are you finally slowing down long enough for real talk?"
I stopped. "Looks like it."
Marcus set the wheelbarrow down. "Ten years is a long damn time. Are you adjusting alright? Does this place feel like home yet or are you still walking around like a guest?"
"Little of both," I said. "Packhouse is the same. People aren't."
He gave a rough chuckle. "We got older. You too, and quite a handsome bastard. That's throwing some of us off."
